Wednesday, November 30
Ganked from abennettstrong:
Okay, that's *funny*. And there are worse results. I usually get Carrot, which has always annoyed me as I don't like the character that much. But Nanny Ogg I can live with.
NaNoWriMo:
Today's Progress: 574 words. I'd write more, but Dan's asleep and somebody's got to make dinner.
Comments: Oh, look, NaNo's over and I didn't win. I just got 17,000 usable words and made my writing schedule into a solid, repeatable habit. See me crying.
Snips: OMG THE SKY IS FALLING!! does not lend itself to quotability. Poor ittle primitives aren't at all sure a comet's supposed to do that... (here's a hint, guys: it ain't.)
 | You scored as Gytha (Nanny) Ogg. You are Nanny Ogg! A talented witch, able to make yourself at home wherever you are, and insist that Greebo is just a big softie. You enjoy drinking, a lot, and singing about a hedgehog. You have a huge family, and get your daughters-in-law to do most of the housework. You are kind and gentle, and help put people at ease.
Which Discworld Character are you like (with pics) created with QuizFarm.com |
Okay, that's *funny*. And there are worse results. I usually get Carrot, which has always annoyed me as I don't like the character that much. But Nanny Ogg I can live with.
NaNoWriMo:
| |
17,052 / 50,000 (34.1%) |
Today's Progress: 574 words. I'd write more, but Dan's asleep and somebody's got to make dinner.
Comments: Oh, look, NaNo's over and I didn't win. I just got 17,000 usable words and made my writing schedule into a solid, repeatable habit. See me crying.
Snips: OMG THE SKY IS FALLING!! does not lend itself to quotability. Poor ittle primitives aren't at all sure a comet's supposed to do that... (here's a hint, guys: it ain't.)
Tuesday, November 29
I hate to follow one book review with another, but I really need to get this one off my chest.
The book was Dexta by the pseudonymic C.J. Ryan, another World Fantasy freebie. I started into it with high hopes - not for literature, but for entertainment: it looked like a lovely little space opera jaunt.
But alas, it was not to be.
The book was indeed a good jaunt with a pleasantly speedy plot. It's the story of Gloria, a lowly beaurocrat (aside from being the emperor's ex-wife) who finds herself in the middle of an interstellar incident. There was politics - not half-bad politics. There were aliens that were decently done and didn't quite fall into the simple categories I expected them to. There were subtle pokes at the upper class, which I always enjoy. It could have been fun.
But I was increasingly distracted and, finally, furiously annoyed by the book's subtext, which was, in a word, sex.
Gloria is a screaming Mary Sue, an assertion I hold to despite betting Dan ten bucks that "C.J." is male. Running down a list of her traits is like a checklist for overdone: most beautiful, youngest to attain her rank, wealthy, semi-royalty, traumatic background, can get any man she wants, solves every problem she's handed, openly desired by every male in the book including the bad guys, frequently inspires the author to headhop just so other characters can eulogize her... yeah. Bad. There isn't even the sense (as in the Anne Bishop books) that the author cares too much about the character, in which case I tend to sigh, shake a reproving finger, and forgive; there's a sense of slickness about Gloria. And that's why I suspect the author's male, because on top of being a Mary Sue she is the perfect male fantasy, from her frequently-described boobs right down to her round rubber heels.
Here's a character who spends a remarkable amount of the book naked, both in and out of bed; who flaunts her "perfect" body and thinks at great length about how much she likes men looking at her; who repeatedly says she wants only fun sex with no emotional involvement; who explains at one point that her family is genetically modified to enjoy sex more; who considers herself a "Tiger", a sexual predator... and yet has few of the Queen Bitch characteristics that go with this personality type; she's largely sweetness, light, and sex, especially to men.
Gee. Sounds like every boy's wet dream, don't she?
I don't consider myself much of a pushbutton feminist, but this book hit most of 'em. I wouldn't, for example, have minded the frequent sex (although it would have been nice if there'd been one sex scene that was vaguely titillating to me, the female reader), the promiscuity, or the admonishments that sex should be fun; I agree wholeheartedly in principle. But when it's stated outright that all sex should be no-strings, no-emotional-attachment and long term relationships don't exist, I get irritated. I wouldn't have minded the nudity, and in fact was pleased with it at first, as it added an exotic edge to an otherwise pseudo-Victorian culture. But when the thing goes on and on, describing gorgeous female body after body, and it becomes rapidly apparent that this liberal attitude towards clothes extends only to the women and the poor men are trapped in suits, I get irritated again.* Add to this the gratuitous catfight, the even more gratuitous aphrodisiacs, and the it's-rape-but-she-likes-it scene, and you are looking at a seriously irritated Kat.
The subtext of the book is that there is no way for a woman to succeed except as sex object... wait, subtext, hell, it's flat-out said. And Gloria is the golden girl of all sex objects. Grudging allowance is made that some women don't have to whore themselves out for success, but these girls are "competing" with the men and thus have to be twice as good as any man who could do their job.
Jesus Christ on a fucking pogo stick. These kind of crap went out with the fifties, Ryan: didn't anyone give you the memo? Why in the hell would a woman have to be better, much less twice as good, to succeed? All she has to be is good enough. Admittedly, Ryan's Gloria doesn't just rely on her good looks. She's smart and works hard... but the implication is that, for a woman, being smart and working hard isn't enough; she has to do back time as well. The structure of the book bears this out. The head of Dexta is male, the Emperor is male, the planetary governor is male, the corporate heads are male, all three alien leaders are male, anyone of any importance, with any authority whatsoever... is male. Here's a cozy little future with its glass ceiling built in.
Visualize my finger gesture at that idea.
There are saving graces to this book. It's fast, breezy and plotty; basically it reminds me of Heinlein after he started sucking. If you don't think Heinlein ever sucked than this may be the book for you. But if you're sensitive to subtext or have a perchant for feminism, beware. This one leaves an oily residue on the mind.
-----
* And please, stop saying "that's because women's bodies are beautiful and men's aren't." Here's me, Michelangelo, and a lot of nekkid Greek statues disagreeing with you.
NaNoWriMo:
Today's Progress: 826 words this morning.
Comments: Not really.
Snips: Nothing good.
The book was Dexta by the pseudonymic C.J. Ryan, another World Fantasy freebie. I started into it with high hopes - not for literature, but for entertainment: it looked like a lovely little space opera jaunt.
But alas, it was not to be.
The book was indeed a good jaunt with a pleasantly speedy plot. It's the story of Gloria, a lowly beaurocrat (aside from being the emperor's ex-wife) who finds herself in the middle of an interstellar incident. There was politics - not half-bad politics. There were aliens that were decently done and didn't quite fall into the simple categories I expected them to. There were subtle pokes at the upper class, which I always enjoy. It could have been fun.
But I was increasingly distracted and, finally, furiously annoyed by the book's subtext, which was, in a word, sex.
Gloria is a screaming Mary Sue, an assertion I hold to despite betting Dan ten bucks that "C.J." is male. Running down a list of her traits is like a checklist for overdone: most beautiful, youngest to attain her rank, wealthy, semi-royalty, traumatic background, can get any man she wants, solves every problem she's handed, openly desired by every male in the book including the bad guys, frequently inspires the author to headhop just so other characters can eulogize her... yeah. Bad. There isn't even the sense (as in the Anne Bishop books) that the author cares too much about the character, in which case I tend to sigh, shake a reproving finger, and forgive; there's a sense of slickness about Gloria. And that's why I suspect the author's male, because on top of being a Mary Sue she is the perfect male fantasy, from her frequently-described boobs right down to her round rubber heels.
Here's a character who spends a remarkable amount of the book naked, both in and out of bed; who flaunts her "perfect" body and thinks at great length about how much she likes men looking at her; who repeatedly says she wants only fun sex with no emotional involvement; who explains at one point that her family is genetically modified to enjoy sex more; who considers herself a "Tiger", a sexual predator... and yet has few of the Queen Bitch characteristics that go with this personality type; she's largely sweetness, light, and sex, especially to men.
Gee. Sounds like every boy's wet dream, don't she?
I don't consider myself much of a pushbutton feminist, but this book hit most of 'em. I wouldn't, for example, have minded the frequent sex (although it would have been nice if there'd been one sex scene that was vaguely titillating to me, the female reader), the promiscuity, or the admonishments that sex should be fun; I agree wholeheartedly in principle. But when it's stated outright that all sex should be no-strings, no-emotional-attachment and long term relationships don't exist, I get irritated. I wouldn't have minded the nudity, and in fact was pleased with it at first, as it added an exotic edge to an otherwise pseudo-Victorian culture. But when the thing goes on and on, describing gorgeous female body after body, and it becomes rapidly apparent that this liberal attitude towards clothes extends only to the women and the poor men are trapped in suits, I get irritated again.* Add to this the gratuitous catfight, the even more gratuitous aphrodisiacs, and the it's-rape-but-she-likes-it scene, and you are looking at a seriously irritated Kat.
The subtext of the book is that there is no way for a woman to succeed except as sex object... wait, subtext, hell, it's flat-out said. And Gloria is the golden girl of all sex objects. Grudging allowance is made that some women don't have to whore themselves out for success, but these girls are "competing" with the men and thus have to be twice as good as any man who could do their job.
Jesus Christ on a fucking pogo stick. These kind of crap went out with the fifties, Ryan: didn't anyone give you the memo? Why in the hell would a woman have to be better, much less twice as good, to succeed? All she has to be is good enough. Admittedly, Ryan's Gloria doesn't just rely on her good looks. She's smart and works hard... but the implication is that, for a woman, being smart and working hard isn't enough; she has to do back time as well. The structure of the book bears this out. The head of Dexta is male, the Emperor is male, the planetary governor is male, the corporate heads are male, all three alien leaders are male, anyone of any importance, with any authority whatsoever... is male. Here's a cozy little future with its glass ceiling built in.
Visualize my finger gesture at that idea.
There are saving graces to this book. It's fast, breezy and plotty; basically it reminds me of Heinlein after he started sucking. If you don't think Heinlein ever sucked than this may be the book for you. But if you're sensitive to subtext or have a perchant for feminism, beware. This one leaves an oily residue on the mind.
-----
* And please, stop saying "that's because women's bodies are beautiful and men's aren't." Here's me, Michelangelo, and a lot of nekkid Greek statues disagreeing with you.
NaNoWriMo:
| |
16,478 / 50,000 (33.0%) |
Today's Progress: 826 words this morning.
Comments: Not really.
Snips: Nothing good.
Saturday, November 26
Back to the much-overdue book reviews:
Kitty and the Midnight Hour was one of the freebies we scored at World Fantasy. Kitty is a reluctant werewolf with a day job at her local NPR station. One night, bored and unhappy, she asks listeners to call in and give their opinion on the supernatural... and starts getting a lot more calls than she expected. The matter snowballs, her boss wants her to continue the show, and Kitty comes up against her Pack, who isn't happy about her breaking cover in this way.
As Dan has mentioned, giving books away is a bloody effective marketing technique, and nowhere is it more obvious than with Kitty. I would never, in a hundred years, have picked up this book. Okay, it's werewolves and not vampires, but I am still sick nigh to death of undead urban fantasy, which was never my thing to start with and has been unwontedly popular over the past few years. There are two categories nearly all undead fiction falls into: Teh Angst, and "Woo! I be vampire! Watch me be cooler than Matrix, sexier than Johnny Depp, and more kick-ass than Jet Li, yo!" I hate angst, in all forms, and have severe moral problems with the thought that beings that, you know, drink human blood also score a Get Into Clubs Free card and that somehow makes up for it. Therefore, I avoid vampire fiction.
Kitty, on the other hand, focuses on the problems of werewolf-dom and makes them seem real. It's not dramatic, overblown, phony Angst, but the boring, grinding, everyday problems of having hormones that tell you to kill and a human side that says "No!" It's dealing with the pack dynamics, the wolf hierarchy of absolute submission that's alien to human life. It's being on the bottom of that hierarchy, where you kick nobody's ass and eat everyone else's leavings. It's being outside the human, thrown in with a lot of people you've little in common with against your will, and forced to rely on them to survive. At one point Kitty reads one of her wannabe-werewolf callers the riot act, reminding him that it's a curse, and the book, unusually for its genre, makes us believe that.
Kitty is not a perfect book. It is pretty obviously a first novel - the plotting is tenuous, the witty banter a little too sharply witty at points, the handling of certain scenes a little clumsy. But through the mistakes, it shines. It's real. You're rooting for Kitty all the way.
NaNoWriMo:
Today's Progress: 1,128 words yesterday.
Comments: Man. I'm actually mostly sticking with the outline still. That's scary.
Snips: Nothing like a little cultural disconnect to liven things up:
"Bricks," he said, which was a word Timmain did not know. "You make bricks from clay," which was another unfamiliar word. "Well, what do you make pots from?"
"Pots?" said Timmain.
Kitty and the Midnight Hour was one of the freebies we scored at World Fantasy. Kitty is a reluctant werewolf with a day job at her local NPR station. One night, bored and unhappy, she asks listeners to call in and give their opinion on the supernatural... and starts getting a lot more calls than she expected. The matter snowballs, her boss wants her to continue the show, and Kitty comes up against her Pack, who isn't happy about her breaking cover in this way.
As Dan has mentioned, giving books away is a bloody effective marketing technique, and nowhere is it more obvious than with Kitty. I would never, in a hundred years, have picked up this book. Okay, it's werewolves and not vampires, but I am still sick nigh to death of undead urban fantasy, which was never my thing to start with and has been unwontedly popular over the past few years. There are two categories nearly all undead fiction falls into: Teh Angst, and "Woo! I be vampire! Watch me be cooler than Matrix, sexier than Johnny Depp, and more kick-ass than Jet Li, yo!" I hate angst, in all forms, and have severe moral problems with the thought that beings that, you know, drink human blood also score a Get Into Clubs Free card and that somehow makes up for it. Therefore, I avoid vampire fiction.
Kitty, on the other hand, focuses on the problems of werewolf-dom and makes them seem real. It's not dramatic, overblown, phony Angst, but the boring, grinding, everyday problems of having hormones that tell you to kill and a human side that says "No!" It's dealing with the pack dynamics, the wolf hierarchy of absolute submission that's alien to human life. It's being on the bottom of that hierarchy, where you kick nobody's ass and eat everyone else's leavings. It's being outside the human, thrown in with a lot of people you've little in common with against your will, and forced to rely on them to survive. At one point Kitty reads one of her wannabe-werewolf callers the riot act, reminding him that it's a curse, and the book, unusually for its genre, makes us believe that.
Kitty is not a perfect book. It is pretty obviously a first novel - the plotting is tenuous, the witty banter a little too sharply witty at points, the handling of certain scenes a little clumsy. But through the mistakes, it shines. It's real. You're rooting for Kitty all the way.
NaNoWriMo:
| |
13,408 / 50,000 (26.8%) |
Today's Progress: 1,128 words yesterday.
Comments: Man. I'm actually mostly sticking with the outline still. That's scary.
Snips: Nothing like a little cultural disconnect to liven things up:
"Bricks," he said, which was a word Timmain did not know. "You make bricks from clay," which was another unfamiliar word. "Well, what do you make pots from?"
"Pots?" said Timmain.
Friday, November 25
Ah, Thanksgiving. The holiday of gastronomic excess. My family loves this holiday.
And you know you have celebrated well when someone puts a tin of chocolates on the table and we all stare at it wistfully but no one takes more than one or two, and it's chocolate, but damnitall, there's just no room.
This was a somewhat different Thanksgiving for us; Dan and his parents were both there, which meant that my kitchen was the only one big enough for the Family Feast, which meant that I hosted my first Thanksgiving ever. It went well. Nobody broke anything, none of the dishes turned out to be inedible, no one commented on my poor housekeeping skills, and there are truly insane amounts of leftovers in my fridge. Dan's parents got on well with my family, although they were very worried later that we thought them rude for not speaking much. It wasn't that they weren't interested, his dad explained, it was just that we were all speaking English so quickly. I told him that a) even fluent English-speakers have trouble understanding my family, which is very tight-knit and has a sort of family-wide version of twinspeak that we all use, and b) the only thing they could do that would actually offend anyone would be to not eat. Not speaking is fine. Picky eater? Doom.
The couch met with much approval, especially from my brother, who is plotting his new career as my couch throw. He was just going to steal it, but his car is too small.
And oddly, with all this, I'm still getting writing done:
NaNoWriMo:
Today's Progress: 741 words yesterday.
Comments: I am definitely not the hare. But hey. Slow and steady....
Snips: This is actually my second-favorite bit:
Timmain dug in the latrines for the next five hours with fairly good humor. Hayn was being punished as well, after all. More to the point no one had stepped up to help him beat Timmain; Timmain's bruises were from Hayn alone. To be beaten by one man rather than ten counted as a victory.
My favorite bit is a one-liner that you'd need to have read the story so far to understand. But still. I like Timmain so far. He's doing typically stupid teenaged things but he's still got his head screwed on right.
And you know you have celebrated well when someone puts a tin of chocolates on the table and we all stare at it wistfully but no one takes more than one or two, and it's chocolate, but damnitall, there's just no room.
This was a somewhat different Thanksgiving for us; Dan and his parents were both there, which meant that my kitchen was the only one big enough for the Family Feast, which meant that I hosted my first Thanksgiving ever. It went well. Nobody broke anything, none of the dishes turned out to be inedible, no one commented on my poor housekeeping skills, and there are truly insane amounts of leftovers in my fridge. Dan's parents got on well with my family, although they were very worried later that we thought them rude for not speaking much. It wasn't that they weren't interested, his dad explained, it was just that we were all speaking English so quickly. I told him that a) even fluent English-speakers have trouble understanding my family, which is very tight-knit and has a sort of family-wide version of twinspeak that we all use, and b) the only thing they could do that would actually offend anyone would be to not eat. Not speaking is fine. Picky eater? Doom.
The couch met with much approval, especially from my brother, who is plotting his new career as my couch throw. He was just going to steal it, but his car is too small.
And oddly, with all this, I'm still getting writing done:
NaNoWriMo:
| |
12,280 / 50,000 (24.6%) |
Today's Progress: 741 words yesterday.
Comments: I am definitely not the hare. But hey. Slow and steady....
Snips: This is actually my second-favorite bit:
Timmain dug in the latrines for the next five hours with fairly good humor. Hayn was being punished as well, after all. More to the point no one had stepped up to help him beat Timmain; Timmain's bruises were from Hayn alone. To be beaten by one man rather than ten counted as a victory.
My favorite bit is a one-liner that you'd need to have read the story so far to understand. But still. I like Timmain so far. He's doing typically stupid teenaged things but he's still got his head screwed on right.
Wednesday, November 23
Urm. Brief update.
My mother's birthday was Friday. It was cool, although she's moaning around about being fifty now. But both she and I think it's kinda cool that I'm exactly half her age at the moment. (I'm also exactly the age she was when she got pregnant with me, but I'm trying not to think about that.)
My brother has confirmed that he'll be leaving in January to live with his girlfriend in Atlanta. This is not at all cool, considering that we're still shorthanded even with him, but probably better for all in the long run.
We have a bean-bag couch now. It is also cool, even if it still looks a bit like our living room has been invaded by the Giant Grey Mutant Potato. As long as Giant Grey Mutant Potatoes stay this comfy, I won't care. We're also getting a normal couch from my family as an early Christmas present, but it won't arrive for two weeks.
Dan's parents are coming for Thanksgiving and will be arriving tonight. As long as I can get the rest of the cleaning done this afternoon, this will also be cool.
And the book continues:
NaNoWriMo:
Today's Progress: 566 words yesterday.
Comments: No way in hell will I make it for NaNo. But I am averaging between five and seven hundred words a day, nice and steady. Considering how much else is going on here I'm cool with that.
Snips: See? He can be sensible too:
Siurn was, of course, the god of death and the Red, but he was also a powerful god, and in the Mordun they considered life hard enough without bringing the wrath of the gods down upon them. Far more sensible to burn incense to him, and consign to him their dead, and tell no stories under his light but stories he might enjoy. Timmain had no wish to associate himself with men who taunted gods. It was too likely to be a brief association.
***
In other writing news, my first agent query went out last week to the agent I Really, Really Want. Cross your fingers for me.
My mother's birthday was Friday. It was cool, although she's moaning around about being fifty now. But both she and I think it's kinda cool that I'm exactly half her age at the moment. (I'm also exactly the age she was when she got pregnant with me, but I'm trying not to think about that.)
My brother has confirmed that he'll be leaving in January to live with his girlfriend in Atlanta. This is not at all cool, considering that we're still shorthanded even with him, but probably better for all in the long run.
We have a bean-bag couch now. It is also cool, even if it still looks a bit like our living room has been invaded by the Giant Grey Mutant Potato. As long as Giant Grey Mutant Potatoes stay this comfy, I won't care. We're also getting a normal couch from my family as an early Christmas present, but it won't arrive for two weeks.
Dan's parents are coming for Thanksgiving and will be arriving tonight. As long as I can get the rest of the cleaning done this afternoon, this will also be cool.
And the book continues:
NaNoWriMo:
| |
11,133 / 50,000 (22.3%) |
Today's Progress: 566 words yesterday.
Comments: No way in hell will I make it for NaNo. But I am averaging between five and seven hundred words a day, nice and steady. Considering how much else is going on here I'm cool with that.
Snips: See? He can be sensible too:
Siurn was, of course, the god of death and the Red, but he was also a powerful god, and in the Mordun they considered life hard enough without bringing the wrath of the gods down upon them. Far more sensible to burn incense to him, and consign to him their dead, and tell no stories under his light but stories he might enjoy. Timmain had no wish to associate himself with men who taunted gods. It was too likely to be a brief association.
***
In other writing news, my first agent query went out last week to the agent I Really, Really Want. Cross your fingers for me.
Saturday, November 12
*yawn*
Scraps and tatters... as you may have guessed from the lack of post, I've been busy lately. Thursday was chicken-killing day, which would have been okay except for the wind. I'm built on the tall-and-thin plan, which is great for sashaying around in a black dress hobnobbing with the nobs but not so great for standing in the freezing cold for two hours with my hands up a chicken's ass and nothing between the wind and my bones but a few shreds of skin. I was so cold I couldn't stop shaking, and afterwards I got HUNGRY.
This isn't your normal hunger. See, aside from the skinny-cold thing, I've got a fast metabolism, to the point where I have to watch out for my weight dropping more than rising. And when I get cold my metabolism goes into overdrive keeping me warm. The result? HUNGRY. Cave-woman HUNGRY. Get the fuck out from between me and the food or you will become the food HUNGRY. My family knows me well and scatters when they spot the cave-woman look, but every so often an innocent bystander gets in the way and I have to bite them to express my point of view.
So it took me a few days and a lot of food to get over that. And there was work and all: I'm doing anything from eight to ten hours a day, all of it on my feet, which isn't leaving me much energy to post. But I'll get better. Promise.
In other news, abennettstrong linked to pics of World Fantasy, and I found one of me and Dan. It's not bad. We were very leather that day.
Oh, and I had two articles published this month which I keep forgetting to mention. One was in Vision and is called Who Is Mary Sue?, the other is in The Science Fiction and Fantasy Workshop newsletter and is called What Do You Do With A First Draft Novel?. I seem to be addicted to question-titles this month. Oh well. Only one brought me any money but they were both good ego-boosts and, I think, good articles.
And then there's NaNoWriMo:
Today's Progress: 770 Thursday, 836 yesterday.
Comments: I'm starting to get the hang of the voice, I think.
Snips: Nothing good that's snippable.
Scraps and tatters... as you may have guessed from the lack of post, I've been busy lately. Thursday was chicken-killing day, which would have been okay except for the wind. I'm built on the tall-and-thin plan, which is great for sashaying around in a black dress hobnobbing with the nobs but not so great for standing in the freezing cold for two hours with my hands up a chicken's ass and nothing between the wind and my bones but a few shreds of skin. I was so cold I couldn't stop shaking, and afterwards I got HUNGRY.
This isn't your normal hunger. See, aside from the skinny-cold thing, I've got a fast metabolism, to the point where I have to watch out for my weight dropping more than rising. And when I get cold my metabolism goes into overdrive keeping me warm. The result? HUNGRY. Cave-woman HUNGRY. Get the fuck out from between me and the food or you will become the food HUNGRY. My family knows me well and scatters when they spot the cave-woman look, but every so often an innocent bystander gets in the way and I have to bite them to express my point of view.
So it took me a few days and a lot of food to get over that. And there was work and all: I'm doing anything from eight to ten hours a day, all of it on my feet, which isn't leaving me much energy to post. But I'll get better. Promise.
In other news, abennettstrong linked to pics of World Fantasy, and I found one of me and Dan. It's not bad. We were very leather that day.
Oh, and I had two articles published this month which I keep forgetting to mention. One was in Vision and is called Who Is Mary Sue?, the other is in The Science Fiction and Fantasy Workshop newsletter and is called What Do You Do With A First Draft Novel?. I seem to be addicted to question-titles this month. Oh well. Only one brought me any money but they were both good ego-boosts and, I think, good articles.
And then there's NaNoWriMo:
| |
6,090 / 50,000 (12.2%) |
Today's Progress: 770 Thursday, 836 yesterday.
Comments: I'm starting to get the hang of the voice, I think.
Snips: Nothing good that's snippable.
Wednesday, November 09
I was going to write something pithy about the elections, but it's ten-thirty and I think I'm coming down with a cold and we've got chickens to kill tomorrow.
So you get extra-pithy.
Yay Virginia, not just because we slapped the face of the torture advocates squatting Shelob-like in the Oval Office but because the Republican candidate was a real dickhead.
Boo Texas. No cookies. Instead you get to wallow in your own pit of self-righteousness while the politicans smirk behind their hands at what frightened, easily manipulable monkeys you are and the Religious Right gloat over their success at convincing people that Jesus taught not "love thy neighbor" but "love thy neighbor as long as he's not different and doesn't make you feel uncomfortable, challenge your worldview, or make you suspect that he's getting better sex than you."
Cookies for the sane people in Texas. I know you tried, guys.
NaNoWriMo:
Today's Progress: 559.
Comments: Of course, the other reason this story is moving so slowly is that I'm used to writing a mature, decisive woman 20 years Timmain's senior. I mean, Joey'd be up on the stage throttling the king by now, but Timmain just sits there. It's unnerving.
Snips: Perhaps the king was startled also; there was a pause before he answered. "I will give you a city. I will give you glory."
"Cities and glory are for the river," said Sula. "The river can afford them. What will you give us?"
So you get extra-pithy.
Yay Virginia, not just because we slapped the face of the torture advocates squatting Shelob-like in the Oval Office but because the Republican candidate was a real dickhead.
Boo Texas. No cookies. Instead you get to wallow in your own pit of self-righteousness while the politicans smirk behind their hands at what frightened, easily manipulable monkeys you are and the Religious Right gloat over their success at convincing people that Jesus taught not "love thy neighbor" but "love thy neighbor as long as he's not different and doesn't make you feel uncomfortable, challenge your worldview, or make you suspect that he's getting better sex than you."
Cookies for the sane people in Texas. I know you tried, guys.
NaNoWriMo:
| |
4,484 / 50,000 (9.0%) |
Today's Progress: 559.
Comments: Of course, the other reason this story is moving so slowly is that I'm used to writing a mature, decisive woman 20 years Timmain's senior. I mean, Joey'd be up on the stage throttling the king by now, but Timmain just sits there. It's unnerving.
Snips: Perhaps the king was startled also; there was a pause before he answered. "I will give you a city. I will give you glory."
"Cities and glory are for the river," said Sula. "The river can afford them. What will you give us?"
Tuesday, November 08
I'm so far behind on the Fifty Book Review Challenge that it's not funny. No chance in hell of catching up, either... but I read three books at World Fantasy, so here's at least a token effort.
Thud! was my plane book, and it got et well before we landed. What can I say? It's Pratchett. It was excellent. Overall not quite as excellent as Going Postal, which I reread the day after I'd read it the first time because it was so good, but still excellent enough that Dan had to pry it from my fingers. ("No going back and reading the good bits again," he said. "You're done. It's my turn.") It was a Nightwatch book, which meant it had my favorite Pratchett character ever, Sam Vimes.
There were trolls. They were good. There were dwarves. They were good also. In fact, of the three things that impressed me the most, the trolls and dwarves were two. It astonishes me that Pratchett's dwarves and trolls get more alien every book. Most authors do it the other way 'round, getting off to a good start and then backsliding, but Pratchett started off with parodies and has gradually worked them into honest-to-god other species.
The third thing that impressed me was his tackling of Vimes-as-father. It's not something most authors will go after - kids are so, you know, icky, and in fact the typical fantasy hero is either a friendless orphan or hates their family, thus letting the author duck the tricky web of guilt and obligation and love that is the real-world family. They find True Wuv but a discreet veil is drawn over subsequent activity (like the inevitable "You may be my soulmate, but you're also the sod who didn't leave enough milk for my tea again" fight - ETA, two months into any live-in relationship) and any descendants who appear in later books are decently grown up.
Pratchett handles it well. Not perfectly, and there's some awkward silliness to bits of it - hey-ho, not sure this is working so let's make 'em laugh! - but overall it is a good subplot with some truly touching payoff at the end.
I've always loved Pratchett's stuff, and I'm loving it even more now that he's slowly shifting from pure verbal slapstick into more subtle stuff. Thud! may not have made me laugh out loud as much as The Colour of Magic (which got me kicked out of the library), but it sticks to the ribs and will, I suspect, bear up to rereading far better. Pratchett's humor is always sympathetic and his characters are real and getting realer by the book. It's not the funny papers any more, it's living proof that art does not have to equal suffering in characters and readers.
Which leads to the burning question: when are we, as a culture, going to get over our lingering sense that Real Art must be grim and give this guy some awards? No offense... but two of the three most recent Hugos were given to books that I had to fight to get through, and one of those was a book I considered flatly inferior. More people picked up Going Postal, and loved it, and learned from it, than ever read those other books. But no one even considers nominating Pratchett for a Hugo.
Why?
Because it's humor, and humor is, well, you know....
Wake up from the Joycian haze, everyone. "Accessible" and "artistic" are not mutually opposite qualities. Let's give some credit where credit is due, eh?
NaNoWriMo:
Comments: Nope, not a chance in hell. My rate of progress for this novel is about half what it was for my previous novel, possibly because Timmain has not spent the past five to ten years in my head, but also because I'm more aware of stuff like plot and worldbuilding and so on. I type, then think, then type, then think. It's better draft than I was making before, I suspect, but it's also slower.
Oh well. Maybe I'll speed up when I hit the battle scenes. /sarcasm
Snips: The king wore a wrap of purest blue, the hardest color of any to dye, Timmain knew from his father's talk; his hair was gold as Shedan's light, his face bare of any beard, and his smile bright and clean. To Timmain he looked like Shedan's rising come to earth.
... that's because you're young and impressionable, kid. *pats Timmain on the head* It's okay. Lotsa time for me to shatter your illusions.
Thud! was my plane book, and it got et well before we landed. What can I say? It's Pratchett. It was excellent. Overall not quite as excellent as Going Postal, which I reread the day after I'd read it the first time because it was so good, but still excellent enough that Dan had to pry it from my fingers. ("No going back and reading the good bits again," he said. "You're done. It's my turn.") It was a Nightwatch book, which meant it had my favorite Pratchett character ever, Sam Vimes.
There were trolls. They were good. There were dwarves. They were good also. In fact, of the three things that impressed me the most, the trolls and dwarves were two. It astonishes me that Pratchett's dwarves and trolls get more alien every book. Most authors do it the other way 'round, getting off to a good start and then backsliding, but Pratchett started off with parodies and has gradually worked them into honest-to-god other species.
The third thing that impressed me was his tackling of Vimes-as-father. It's not something most authors will go after - kids are so, you know, icky, and in fact the typical fantasy hero is either a friendless orphan or hates their family, thus letting the author duck the tricky web of guilt and obligation and love that is the real-world family. They find True Wuv but a discreet veil is drawn over subsequent activity (like the inevitable "You may be my soulmate, but you're also the sod who didn't leave enough milk for my tea again" fight - ETA, two months into any live-in relationship) and any descendants who appear in later books are decently grown up.
Pratchett handles it well. Not perfectly, and there's some awkward silliness to bits of it - hey-ho, not sure this is working so let's make 'em laugh! - but overall it is a good subplot with some truly touching payoff at the end.
I've always loved Pratchett's stuff, and I'm loving it even more now that he's slowly shifting from pure verbal slapstick into more subtle stuff. Thud! may not have made me laugh out loud as much as The Colour of Magic (which got me kicked out of the library), but it sticks to the ribs and will, I suspect, bear up to rereading far better. Pratchett's humor is always sympathetic and his characters are real and getting realer by the book. It's not the funny papers any more, it's living proof that art does not have to equal suffering in characters and readers.
Which leads to the burning question: when are we, as a culture, going to get over our lingering sense that Real Art must be grim and give this guy some awards? No offense... but two of the three most recent Hugos were given to books that I had to fight to get through, and one of those was a book I considered flatly inferior. More people picked up Going Postal, and loved it, and learned from it, than ever read those other books. But no one even considers nominating Pratchett for a Hugo.
Why?
Because it's humor, and humor is, well, you know....
Wake up from the Joycian haze, everyone. "Accessible" and "artistic" are not mutually opposite qualities. Let's give some credit where credit is due, eh?
NaNoWriMo:
| |
3,923 / 50,000 (7.8%) |
Comments: Nope, not a chance in hell. My rate of progress for this novel is about half what it was for my previous novel, possibly because Timmain has not spent the past five to ten years in my head, but also because I'm more aware of stuff like plot and worldbuilding and so on. I type, then think, then type, then think. It's better draft than I was making before, I suspect, but it's also slower.
Oh well. Maybe I'll speed up when I hit the battle scenes. /sarcasm
Snips: The king wore a wrap of purest blue, the hardest color of any to dye, Timmain knew from his father's talk; his hair was gold as Shedan's light, his face bare of any beard, and his smile bright and clean. To Timmain he looked like Shedan's rising come to earth.
... that's because you're young and impressionable, kid. *pats Timmain on the head* It's okay. Lotsa time for me to shatter your illusions.
Monday, November 07
Well, I'm back from World Fantasy.
To describe the whole thing would take too long: suffice to say that there was much good panelage but more good people. It was grand to hang out with old acquaintances (cristalia, matociquala) and equally grand to meet new ones (arcaedia, sosostris2012, katallen, abennettstrong). There was much alcohol, and lusting for necklaces, and fun. A grand total of five people have told me I look like Tilda Swinton, which is odd but kind of cool. If I ever have reason to dress up for Halloween I think I'll try for the Angel Gabriel.
And that party that got shut down? The cheese-tasting, perfume-sampling, chartreuse-drinking, reading-bad-sex-scene-aloud-until-breathless-with-laughter party? I know nothing. I was never there. Honest.
NaNoWriMo:
Today's Progress: 1,488 words since Wednesday
Comments: I'm mildly surprised that I got any writing at all done at WFC, but still, some catching up to do. That's life.
Snips: Poor little fourth son looking for a home:
"You will find a place someday," she said at last, so softly he could barely hear it. "You will make your own place. But I would do you no service fitting you to mine. I'm sorry, Timmain."
To describe the whole thing would take too long: suffice to say that there was much good panelage but more good people. It was grand to hang out with old acquaintances (cristalia, matociquala) and equally grand to meet new ones (arcaedia, sosostris2012, katallen, abennettstrong). There was much alcohol, and lusting for necklaces, and fun. A grand total of five people have told me I look like Tilda Swinton, which is odd but kind of cool. If I ever have reason to dress up for Halloween I think I'll try for the Angel Gabriel.
And that party that got shut down? The cheese-tasting, perfume-sampling, chartreuse-drinking, reading-bad-sex-scene-aloud-until-breathless-with-laughter party? I know nothing. I was never there. Honest.
NaNoWriMo:
| |
3,346 / 50,000 (6.7%) |
Today's Progress: 1,488 words since Wednesday
Comments: I'm mildly surprised that I got any writing at all done at WFC, but still, some catching up to do. That's life.
Snips: Poor little fourth son looking for a home:
"You will find a place someday," she said at last, so softly he could barely hear it. "You will make your own place. But I would do you no service fitting you to mine. I'm sorry, Timmain."
Tuesday, November 01
There were no trick-or-treaters at our house last night. This made me sad. I've lived in the boonies all my life and there aren't too many kids willing to brave our mile-long driveway for candy, so I saw real live trick-or-treaters as one of the perks of living in town. I bought candy. I was really looking forward to it.
Come to find out that the city of Galax, in its infinite wisdom, had planned an "alternative to the traditional trick-or treating". I didn't get the newspaper and didn't know (thus my sad Monday night candy vigil).
Why exactly Galax found it necessary to do this is not made clear in the article, but I'm assuming it's one of three things:
1) It's Satanic. We get these idiots every now and then, when there's a bit of a lull and they start loosing congregation because they're not providing them with enough things to fear and hate. Right now I think the homosexuals are giving them a full house, but hey, maybe they're going for broke and tearing up Those Satan-Worshipping Kids again. How would I know?
2) It's Not Safe For the Children. See all the stories about poisoned Halloween candy (false), razor blades in halloween candy (true, but almost always the work of another child inspired by the "warning tales"), and the typical American fear of madmen in back alleys and darkened doorways. I regard this with a certain amount of disgust. First off, kids are almost always accompanied by parents or at least other kids. Second, this is a town of ten thousand, for Christ's sake. Which is not to say it's paradise - in fact we have a distressing amount of violent crime - but randomized violent crime remains, by and large, the possession of cities. People turn on those they know. In the meantime, Dan and I leave our front door hanging open all day and come home to an untouched house. Four times.*
3) The Kids Are Not Safe For Us. See the article's reference for a curfew for under-sixteens. This is just sad. It's the lingering eu de Columbine, I suppose, that makes us fear who our kids are and what they might do, and it's ever so much easier to treat our young like potential criminals than deal with the root causes. (Like, y'know, unemployment, rampant teenage pregnancy, the worst drug problems in the state, underfunded public schooling, and an interpretation of religion which allows for no middle ground or forgiveness and stamps the sinner indelibly with their sin....)
I know this happens everywhere. I doubt it's any worse here than anywhere else. But it's sad. It's sad that we don't trust each other or our own kids. It's sad that I didn't get to see kids dressed up and begging for candy because the adults deemed it "too dangerous". It's sad that the kids are drinking in that distrust with every breath they take and every metal detector they walk through, learning the lesson we don't realize we're teaching.
*****
Oh, well. Aside from that it was a pretty good birthday. I have swag, most of it readable or cookable-from, and some of it cashable, which will be a big help on my happy-birthday-to-me trip to World Fantasy. My cake was briefly stranded in Atlanta, along with my brother and his misbehaving car, but that was sorted out with minimal pain and suffering on all sides. Which is good.
* Because we're idiots.
NaNoWriMo:
Today's Progress: 1,858 words
Comments: Hmm. One day in and I'm already modifying the outline. This is why I need a computer program that allows for dynamic outlines... it's also starting very, very slowly, for a variety of reasons, but I'm trying to convince myself that this is okay.
Repeat after me: "Not all stories start with bombs and dead bodies."
Snips: And so the story begins:
The spring of Timmain's fifteenth year was a bad one. The winter had been hard, and the Green was too ragged-edged to turn out the goats on the traditional day; there were rumors of war to the west; a new star had appeared, moving rapidly across the face of Siurn; and the first ulog of the year was born two-headed and dead.
"Bad omens," said the village omener, and cut the beast open to read doom in its entrails.
"Bad blood," said Timmain's sister Sula, and went to negotiate a trade of stock with the herder three villages over.
Come to find out that the city of Galax, in its infinite wisdom, had planned an "alternative to the traditional trick-or treating". I didn't get the newspaper and didn't know (thus my sad Monday night candy vigil).
Why exactly Galax found it necessary to do this is not made clear in the article, but I'm assuming it's one of three things:
1) It's Satanic. We get these idiots every now and then, when there's a bit of a lull and they start loosing congregation because they're not providing them with enough things to fear and hate. Right now I think the homosexuals are giving them a full house, but hey, maybe they're going for broke and tearing up Those Satan-Worshipping Kids again. How would I know?
2) It's Not Safe For the Children. See all the stories about poisoned Halloween candy (false), razor blades in halloween candy (true, but almost always the work of another child inspired by the "warning tales"), and the typical American fear of madmen in back alleys and darkened doorways. I regard this with a certain amount of disgust. First off, kids are almost always accompanied by parents or at least other kids. Second, this is a town of ten thousand, for Christ's sake. Which is not to say it's paradise - in fact we have a distressing amount of violent crime - but randomized violent crime remains, by and large, the possession of cities. People turn on those they know. In the meantime, Dan and I leave our front door hanging open all day and come home to an untouched house. Four times.*
3) The Kids Are Not Safe For Us. See the article's reference for a curfew for under-sixteens. This is just sad. It's the lingering eu de Columbine, I suppose, that makes us fear who our kids are and what they might do, and it's ever so much easier to treat our young like potential criminals than deal with the root causes. (Like, y'know, unemployment, rampant teenage pregnancy, the worst drug problems in the state, underfunded public schooling, and an interpretation of religion which allows for no middle ground or forgiveness and stamps the sinner indelibly with their sin....)
I know this happens everywhere. I doubt it's any worse here than anywhere else. But it's sad. It's sad that we don't trust each other or our own kids. It's sad that I didn't get to see kids dressed up and begging for candy because the adults deemed it "too dangerous". It's sad that the kids are drinking in that distrust with every breath they take and every metal detector they walk through, learning the lesson we don't realize we're teaching.
*****
Oh, well. Aside from that it was a pretty good birthday. I have swag, most of it readable or cookable-from, and some of it cashable, which will be a big help on my happy-birthday-to-me trip to World Fantasy. My cake was briefly stranded in Atlanta, along with my brother and his misbehaving car, but that was sorted out with minimal pain and suffering on all sides. Which is good.
* Because we're idiots.
NaNoWriMo:
| |
1,858 / 50,000 (3.7%) |
Today's Progress: 1,858 words
Comments: Hmm. One day in and I'm already modifying the outline. This is why I need a computer program that allows for dynamic outlines... it's also starting very, very slowly, for a variety of reasons, but I'm trying to convince myself that this is okay.
Repeat after me: "Not all stories start with bombs and dead bodies."
Snips: And so the story begins:
The spring of Timmain's fifteenth year was a bad one. The winter had been hard, and the Green was too ragged-edged to turn out the goats on the traditional day; there were rumors of war to the west; a new star had appeared, moving rapidly across the face of Siurn; and the first ulog of the year was born two-headed and dead.
"Bad omens," said the village omener, and cut the beast open to read doom in its entrails.
"Bad blood," said Timmain's sister Sula, and went to negotiate a trade of stock with the herder three villages over.
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